Contentment--Updated--11-7-12

          As I walk down a dusty winding road, the sounds of water beating against rocks enthrall my curiosity.

Not only do I perceive water flowing, moisture is in the air.  Suddenly, stumbling over a pile of entangled

driftwood, a jagged piece of wood scrapes my leg; fortunately, the skins intact.  The babbling brook cutting

through the backwoods in Alabama leads me to a weather-beaten road sign, "Underwood Road." Underneath

my breath I mumble, "Underwood Road, this road is familiar."  As I continue walking, a cool breeze stirs up a

variety of blooming flowers. Oh, what wonderful scents of lilac, along with honeysuckle fill the air.

          The changing tones through echoes of nature captivates my senses, birds chirps feeding their young,

bees buzzing-- extracting nectar. A wide-eyed white spotted owl hooting and staring at me, is probably

wondering, “Who is the stranger, where is she going?”  In a distance, smoke seeping from the chimney inside of

a log cabin swiftly attained my attention. Rushing toward the cabin -- without thinking, about dogs running

wild allows me to visit with no vicious growls. Cords of wood neatly stacked next to the barn seem adequate

for the winter. Standing by the smokehouse, an old mule drinking water from a wooden barrel is enjoying every

ounce; not worried about my presence.

          Inside of the Smokehouse hams and sides of pork belly for bacon hangs on railroad tied rafters. Two fine

horses, ones black with white spots, the other, shiny chestnut brown in the barn is sharing a bale of hay,

without a care in the world. Three cows grazing in the pasture wearing collars around their neck rings loud and

clear as they chew their cud.  Stepping upon the front porch, several chickens were just frightened out of a few

feathers scattering out of my way. As I took a peep through a tiny window on the front door, at the table,

surrounded by wooden benches and a couple of lard buckets, used for chairs sits a man eating cornbread and

milk.

          A glimmer of light from the burning candle wick cast a shadow on a face, and lanky bodydressed in a

tattered pair of bib jeans, with a red flannelled shirt tucked underneath a pair suspender is partially buttoned.

His brown unlaced dirty worn boots. belong to, oh! my--goodness, it is Grandpa Watson.  Knocking louder on

the window pane, shouting, “Grandpa, it is Carolyn Kaye, let me in.”   however, he does not seem to hear a

word, I say, he continues eating.  Lying on the floor directly in front of a wire screened fireplace, an old blue

tick Hound dog appears mighty comfortable soaking up the warmth of air in the atmosphere.

          Oh! my, it is Blue,again, yelling, Blue come here.”  Blue is not moving either. On the mantle, above the

fireplace, a miniature grandfather clock‘s hands stands at 1:35 pm. On the wall above the fireplace a family

photo, with my Grandparents, Uncle Walter, aunts, and Mom are youthful frozen in time.  In thekitchen, on the

wall, the calendar is dated August 6, 1960.  The woman of the house wearing a multicolored bonnet sitting at

sewing machineis Grandma Watson. As I knock louder on the window pane, whimpering, “Grandma, come here,

can’t you hear or see me?” She can’t hear me, she continues to patch Grandpa’s pants, humming a familiar--

song, Rock of Age’s.

          Her long bright blue flowered dress touching the floor next to her ankles barely show her black two inch

thick healed shoes, she places in the corner behind our bedroom door every night before bedtime.  Sitting on

the edge of the bed, she is removing her brown comb barrettes, combing out the tangles in her gray thinning

hair, which had been twisted up in its usual bun all day.  Turning the knob, eagerly, I push the door open,

inside; however, my Grandparents continue their monotonous routines in life. Inside, their home, I exam

everything, Grandmother’s green chicken with a pin cushion full of different size needles with spindles of

different colorful threadssits on a table self near her foot paddled Singer sewing machine.

          In the kitchen, on the sink, sets the white pan with a red rim, it is full of water, to wash our hands.  A

bucket full of freshly drawn water has the dipper hanging on the right side for everyone to share a drink of

water. In the middle of the table are piles of biscuits and Cornbread covered by white cheesecloth, guarding

from flies or drying out in the air, keeping fresh and germ free. Sitting next to the breads, are jars of

homemade jam along with a tin can of Sorghum Syrup bought at the Yellow-Front Store.  In a cigar box on top

of the refrigerator, are stacks of yellow receipts and green stamps to trade for future household items.

          All beds covered with patchwork quilts, are beautiful, made by hand.  Temptation overpowered my

senses, I am out of control, touching and feeling every delicate square of material, running my right index

finger along each small strong stitch.  Then, rub material against my skin, which feels like silk, yet, made from

cotton, a masterpiece only perfected by my Grandmother’s hands.Each tiny stitch holds a different story, ones,

of happiness, a few of sadness from a certain loss. No matter what state of mind, each quilt was sewn with

hard working, painful, often, bleeding fingertips.

          Hands worth more than any amount of Gold or Platinum this world has ever unloaded.  My, Oh! my, such

wonderful memories brighten this spirit.  Peaceful thoughts flourish these moments.  No one ever touched --

wrinkling Grandma’s beds.  The inside of this cabin may be small, yet, is large enough to fill souls with

comfort and peace. There are several jars of food stored on shelves in the Kitchen pantry.  Suddenly, the smell

of beans boiling, a pan of potatoes and chicken is frying on the wood stove stir up my taste buds.  The aroma

of those beans reminds my salivary glands and olfactory senses of the savory distinguished flavors, only

grandma perfected. Taste and smell never forgotten. 

          Sadly, they cannot see, nor, hear me, I must go, as I turn to leave, I take one more glance around the

room, then, yell, “Where are you? At this juncture, I am alone, in pure silence.Walking toward the front door, I

take a quick look outdoors --snow is falling; the front porch facing the crystallized lake gives me a chill.  Wind

with misty drizzle of rain mixed with snow is adding extra weight on the branches scraping against the tin

roof.  The trees normal hues of burnt orange with crimson colored leaves are scattered under a blanket of

snow.  It’s getting much colder. Chills running throughout this body, seeks warmth, at least the room

temperature is cozy as the furnishings.

          Actually, the furniture looks modern.  Stepping closer to the Fireplace in order to warm my shivering

body, I sit in the rocking chair,with the two thick comfortable down cushions.  Rocking away while listening to

the crackling wood burning, sprinkles of water dripping down from the chimney mixed with questing smoke

splashes on my face, the smoke is giving me a nasty cough making my eyes water is not appealing.  Looking

out of the picture window, a hint of sun hiding behind partial cirrus with a hint of nimbus clouds puts a

damper on thinking of spring, a season which brightens the spirit, of clear days. 

          Blue Jays sing their favorite tunes, children ride Bicycle on side walks, or playing hide and seek hoping to

conceal their cover.  Soon, the ever-changing seasons resumes. Flowers will bloom, spreading perfumed scents

of lilac, as well as honeysuckles.  Butterflies flutter their beautiful wings pollinating flowers. As I look around

the room, an oil painting depicting a violin-displayed on a cluttered mantel captivates my attention; it has

many unorganized books, signs those Books are read; it is a home which speaks volumes,

          “I am a home, not a house, lived in and enjoyed. ”

          I realize, everyone walking inside are welcomed, and comfortable.  No one removes shoes; eat on the

couch watching Television without being uptight. Unlike me, for many years, panic overwhelmed my mind, if

someone came over;or, just mentioned coming over. In my mind, nothing was clean enough; or, good enough-

sparkling clean.  I was miserable. New furniture, made me uncomfortable, sitting on a new couch, I worried

about spilling.If a piece of lint was lying on the floor, it had to be picked up. In the past, I wanted to run,

or hide.  Chimes from a grandfather clock in the dining room struck a Chord-- confronting --reality, I am

home.

          Yes, new furniture is nice to own, however, sanity is more important.  My house was clean, the curtains

were drawn; the lights were low, trying to relax. Yet, could not relax in my own home.  I wasted too many years

worrying about material things.  Every moment is precious, we must enjoy every hour.  My deceased

sister-in-law Martha and I were talking one day about messes children make playing with toys, my ranting and

raving about toys lying in the living floor was cut short by Martha, she stopped my ranting, saying,

          “Carolyn, leave those toys in the floor, your children are alive to play with toys."

          An infant of hers, a girl died of SIDS, a car hit and killed her oldest son in 198.  She came from Alabama;

to Michigan, to attend her brother’s funeral.  The previous owners of my present home had given me their

Family Bible, a recliner and a couple of matching lovely cups with saucers. Before leaving for home, Martha

asked, if she could have one of my cup and saucer sets. I told her, “No."  To date, those cups have never been

used; they have gathered dust in a cabinet in my kitchen.  Only recently, I thought about the day, refusing to

give her the cup and saucer set. It has taken many years to learn, it is better to give, than to receive.

          Martha, lived in houses without running water until the late 1980’s, the houses Martha and Grandma

lived in were considered shacks. Martha lived in shacks until the last few years of her life.  Grandma moved

into a decent home shortly before dying.  In addition, Grandpa bought new living room furniture and a kitchen

table with chairs.  Yet, she never had running water. Grandma did not live to enjoy her new furniture.  In the

past, before both woman died, most people would have refused to walk into their homes, especially, Martha's,

people would have been afraid of falling through the cracks in plank floors.

          Yet, in each woman’s eyes and heart, it was home. Both women were content, as Queen Elizabeth living

in a beautiful Palace.  At the end of each day from cooking, Grandma fixing Grandpa and Walter’s lunch,

planting seeds, gathering vegetables drawing water for drinking, -for washing dishes, for washing clothes in a

wringer washing machine along with drawing many buckets of water for baths. Making quilts, cutting patterns

for clothes, canning vegetables and jellies. wringing chicken necks, skinning rabbits for supper, gathering

eggs from the hen house for breakfast. Picking cotton, selling candy to make ends meet.

          A midwife, delivering children.  Holding prayer meetings every Sunday; having a table full of food, fit for

a king, to eat as they pleased at the end of each meeting.  I just realized how lucky our family was to have such

a wonderful wonder. I thought, I had it rough--Oh! I do not think so! Grandma, I love you dearly.  To join you

in Heaven--God willing --it would be an honor to join you in eternal life.  Had Martha or, Grandmother known

someone was in need for food, clothes, or shelter, his or her dilemma ceased.  Martha and Grandma’s hearts

were filled with love,kindness, most of all, compassion.  Both women would have given you the shirts off of

their back -- long as you were in need.  "Martha, please forgive me."